Interactions with a Dragonborn
by The Right Stop
Summary: A story about the people in Skyrim and their interactions with the terrifying, and powerful, Dragonborn, the guy who regularly screws around with Daedric Princes and decided to wait a few months to save the world while they searched every nook and cranny for something shiny.
1. Chapter 1: Greybeards - Impressions

**AN: So this is something that I may add to over time.**

 **I was playing through Skyrim and just thought to myself, as I returned the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to the Greybeards, knowing nearly every Shout in the game, that these guys should be worshiping me.**

 **Thus, we have this.**

 **I dedicate this series to all those people who people who were able to curb-stomp Alduin with a sneaky arrow to the knee. To those who still wonder why you can kill a dragon in one hit while it takes multiple to kill a bear at level eighty. To those decided who decided max out each and every skill tree for no other reason than you could.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Greybeards – First Impressions**

Despite the cold, High Hrothgar was, in actuality, quite a warm place.

The solid stone foundation held the cold of the mountain at bay, the ancient Nordic building techniques holding against Time, the harsh weather of the Throat of the World and even the voices of the Greybeards.

Just like many other ancient Nordic structures.

Arngeir, however, believed that it was the blessing of Kyne that had allowed the building to remain standing despite the assaults, both purposeful and accidental. So far into her domain, how could such a building stand if she did not wish it so? How could the cold stones retain the heat of the braziers so well?

Regardless of whether his theory was true or not, the Greybeard murmured a small prayer to Kyne as a show of gratitude for the warm floors of High Hrothgar. It was the warmth that the stone radiated that allowed him to kneel patiently in wait for the Dragonborn. For all his skill with the Voice, not even he was immune to the aches and pains of old age that the warmth kept at bay.

It had been several months since they had sent their call into the arms of Kyne, many months of pausing and listening for any sign of the latest Dragonborn's approach. A whisper in the wind or a tremor in the earth, the Greybeards had waited for a sign that the Dragonborn approached, but moons passed without anything to tell of their continued survival.

At several times over this period, the four Tongues had gathered to question whether or not the Dragonborn had perished on the journey to the Throat of the World. The path was dangerous one, after all, for even the bravest of adventurers.

None of them brought up the question of why the Dragonborn hadn't answered their call immediately, what they did in their own time was none of the Greybeards' concern. All that mattered was they were taught about how to correctly use the power at their disposal.

It had only been a few days ago that they had heard it, the strongest sign they could have hoped for, a return call. It brought all of the Greybeards from their meditation, shaking the structure of High Hrothgar for several moments and loosened drifts of snow.

All of the Greybeards were of the mind that it was not only a show of power, but also lack of restraint, a lack of guidance. The voice of the Dragonborn had been, for lack of a better word, brutal. It had not been used to commune with Kyne, nor keep the peace within nature, as the Greybeards teachings would explicitly say, the only use for the Voice.

The Dragonborn's voice had been used for war, for violence, for domination. Like in the ancient times, before Jurgen Windcaller created the Way of the Voice.

It had worried them, initially, before calm had overcome them. If the Dragonborn was approaching them, it must mean that he was tired of using hisVoice in such a manner, that he wished to learn of the path of Jurgen Windcaller, the path to harmony.

Regardless of if the opposite was true, and the Dragonborn was, in fact, coming to destroy them, Argneir was confident that they, the Greybeards, would be able to defeat them. Whatever advantage of having the soul of dragon gifted them, the Greybeard didn't believe it enough to overcome the near 300 years of knowledge that him and his fellow Tongues possessed.

Then there was the leader. Should things look dire, Arngeir had hope that Paarthurnax would step in to prevent the Way of the Voice from ending with them.

The clang of metal on stone reached Arngeir's ears, breaking through the light meditative haze that had covered his mind. Immediately the Greybeard was focused, knowing this was the Dragonborn, it could be no other. He rose to his feet, barely a sound echoing off the walls of the main meditation area of High Hrothgar. His fellow Greybeards quickly appeared by his side, all hearing the sound.

Another clang rang out, this time closer, right in front of the doors to the monastery if the Tongue had to guess. A well of apprehension coiled itself in Arngeir's gut as he spared a look at other masters of the Way of the Voice, arrayed around him, all prepared to receive the Dragonborn, in whatever capacity he chose to greet them in.

The door opened and Arngeir felt his breath hitch in anticipation, just as a menace in armour stepped through.

At first glance, one could mistake the being as a Dremora. The armour was a black darker than ebony with a tint of red that reminded the Greybeard of the colour of blood. The style of helmet, nor any piece of protection that covered their body, did this impression no favours, all of it forming into sharp edges and points that looked painful to look at.

The dress of the visitor soon became the least of the Tongue's worries as their presence slammed into the Greybeard with the subtlety of a giant. Heat washed over Arngeir's body, unnatural in its warmth, and uncomfortable in its nature. It made him want to flee to the courtyard, to escape this thing's presence, to embrace the freezing mountain air that awaited him outside the stone wall of High Hrothgar.

There was nothing about the being before him that sought peace. It was made for war, and it thrived in that environment, and they, the Greybeards, had foolishly called it into their home.

The door slammed shut behind the being as it took another step forward. The urge to take a step back almost took Arngeir before he regained control of himself, he noticed with some pride that none of his fellow Tongues had done so either. Good.

Should this be their end, none of them would meet it with their backs turned or their eyes closed.

The being's steps echoed slightly in the quiet chamber, each one becoming progressively louder as it drew closer. Finally, almost an eternity later, it stopped a good few lengths from them. There was a moment of silence.

"You summoned me."

The voice rang slightly, coming from inside the helmet. Arngeir was also slightly surprised to hear the Nordic tone used, a part of him had truly believed that the being before him was some kind of Dremora.

"Greetings," Arngeir replied after a moment, remembering that he was the voice for the Greybeards, none of the others being able to speak in the mortal tongue any longer. "I am master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."

"You summoned me," the man, judging by the tone of the voice and physic shown by the armour, repeated, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

"We summoned the Dragonborn," was Arngeir's neutral reply. "Whether or not you are Dragonborn remains to be seen. Come, let us taste of your Voice."

Tasting the Voice of the untested or unskilled was a technique used by the Greybeards to determine the proficiency of the volunteer with either a specific Word or simply their use of the Voice in general. When involving certain Shouts, or even after one gather a certain amount of experience in using the Voice, it was a dangerous practice, the effects of each Shout becoming too much for a mortal form to bear.

While they wouldn't ordinarily perform this Tasting on someone who hadn't had at least a month or two of experience in the Voice, they Greybeards knew that the Dragonborn had knowledge of at least one shout. It was how they had discovered his existence after all.

None of them had any idea of the difference between the Voice of a Dragonborn and the Voice of a regular mortal, they only had second-hand accounts to go off, but none of them truly believe an untrained Dragonborn capable of inflicting too much damage upon them, regardless of their prodigal-skill using the Dragon-Language. They were masters of the Voice.

There was a pause as the helmet the man wore swivelled from left to right, over looking each of the Greybeards.

"Do not be afraid," Arngeir told the man before him, deciphering the meaning behind the motion. "Your Shout will not harm us."

A rumble suddenly emanated from the man, it only took a moment to realise that it was actually a breath being taken by the armoured figure. Bracing himself, Arngeir prepared to feel the Voice of the being before him.

" _Fus_."

Might. Strength. _Force_.

His body staggered.

Arngeir had thought he'd known the meaning of the word. Force was that which couldn't be stopped. In relation to Unrelenting Force, it was the river that carved itself down a mountain. It was a mammoth casually knocking trees out its way. It was more than mortal men could bear.

As the Shout hit him, Arngeir realised that didn't know _Force_ in its entirety. It had a side of violence that he couldn't, wouldn't, know as a follower of the Way of the Voice. A fire burning uncontrollably through a field, a wind tearing up trees in a forest, a bolder roaring unopposed down a mountain.

" _Ro_."

Control. Discipline. _Balance_.

His knees buckled.

From his mind's eye, Arngeir watched as the fire curved around a town, the townsfolk remaining untouched as their crops burned. The gale of air howled and a near perfect line of trees were torn from their roots. The bolder bounced over the resting place of a group of travellers, each of them unware as death flew above them.

" _Dah_."

Away. Repulse. _Push_.

His feet left the ground.

The fire roared into an inferno that burned the area to cinders, torching the land and boiling the air. The town died, the people collapsing, their proximity not far enough to stop them from inhaling the noxious fumes given off by the blaze.

A gust of wind transformed into a raging cyclone that removed the forest from maps and left unrecognisable terrain in its wake. Rock was torn from the earth, trees reduced to splinters and water pulled from streams, all feeding Kyne's wrath.

One became many, the bolder becoming an avalanche of unforgiving stone that flattened all in its path. The toughest of materials, iron to ebony, and the strongest of spells, all bowing before the might of thundering stone.

As his vision cleared, Arngeir found himself on laying on his side, head and back touching the stone of High Hrothgar through his robes. With a groan, one that was echoed around him, the Greybeard pushed himself to his feet, noting that his fellows were doing so around him.

Eyes focusing across the room, the speaker for the Greybeards found himself facing the man, the Dragonborn, for he could be no other, with a stiffer back.

Arngeir had thought that he understood the power that a Dragonborn could wield. It was clear now that he was wrong, so very wrong. To come into the power that he has, untrained, was terrifying. Each of the Greybeards were aware of the power a Tongue had in their possession, all of Tamriel was thanks to the actions of the Jarl of Windhelm. Arngeir couldn't help but think that the man before him, for better or worse, would redefine the power a master of the Voice could possess.

"Dragonborn," Arngeir announced, inwardly worrying if he would regret these in the future, "it is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar."

 **End Chapter**

 **AN: What do you think?**

 **Leave a review, favourite and follow.**

 **Probably do something about the Thieves Guild next. Hope you all like Delvin wondering if Brynjolf is an idiot for deciding the guy in daedric armour would make a good thief.**

 **The Right Stop.**


	2. Chapter 2: Thieves Guild - Convincing

**AN: Honestly, this was meant to be longer, but I'm not really going for long chapters with this, more like short snippets that each add onto a larger whole.**

 **I've got no really timeline for this, but this is one there if you squint at it, tilt your head at the right angle, and look through a kaleidoscope.**

 **Fun fact before we begin; during the Cidhna Mine quest, the first time I did it, I didn't know you had to surrender to the guards into to progress the story, so I didn't, and ended up slaughtering pretty much everyone in Markarth.**

 **Thieves Guild – Convincing Delvin**

"Are you serious?"

Delvin Mallory had seen a lot of shit during his time as a fence, his work for the Thieves Guild and the small stuff he did for the Dark Brotherhood. It was getting to point where he doubted there were few people in Tamriel, let alone Skyrim, who could say that they had seen half of what he had but this was a first even for him.

"Aye, I'm serious."

"Are you looking at the same bloody person that I am, Bryn?"

Delvin liked to think that when he looked at something, he'd be able to see what others couldn't, some kind of worth hidden value. He found no value when he looked at the guy standing behind Brynjolf in _Daedric fucking armour_.

Despite its legendary status, Delvin had found himself staring at armour and weapons made of the metal more than a few times over his life. He'd never seen someone kitted out in a full set though, and he wished he hadn't. That armour wasn't normal.

"He's proven himself, Del. Managed to put the plant on Brand-Shei," Brynjolf pointed out, from his position seated opposite Delvin, to which the breton scoffed.

"How? By murdering everyone in the room and planting it on his corpse." Moving a hand to point in the direction of Brynjolf's prospective initiate to the Thieves Guild, the master thief found himself raising his voice in frustration. "He looks about as sneaky as fucking giant." Delvin didn't care if the proposed initiate heard him or if he took offence, hopefully he'd just take the hint and leave.

"I can guarantee that our poor little dark-elf is stewing in the Jarl's jail, very much alive," Brynjolf replied, arms coming to cross over his chest. "Lad did the switch so quick I don't think I was speaking for more than a second before he was back beside me."

"Are you sure you aren't drinking your own 'Falmer Elixir' there, Bryn? At little switcheroo doesn't mean someone's inclined for ourkind of _work_."

"Alright look," Brynjolf said with a sigh, leaning over to plant his hands on the table that he and Delvin were sitting at. "I realise that he might not me suited to the kind of work that requires at _subtler_ touch but I've got a good feeling about this. In the small time he was out there, he picked a pocket with at least five sets of eyes on him and barely brushed by his mark. Not only that, I saw the kid take a little for himself too. Opened the sliding door underneath Brand-Shei's stand, picked the strong-box and emptied it, all in one movement." A small smile wormed its way onto Brynjolf's face. "Kid's got skills."

For a second, Delvin's eyes darted from Bynjolf's face to the Daedric-armour-wearing man leaning against a post near the entrance to the Flagon, next to Dirge. He only managed to hold that eyeless gaze for a second before he was forced to look away.

' _Fuck that armour is creepy._ '

There was no way someone like _that_ managed to pull of what Brynjolf was saying, they'd need to be a Nightingale of Nocturnal herself to do so.

Twitching slightly, Delvin made to return his gaze to the Dremora-impersonator, as if to make sure that he wasn't a Nightingale – because wouldn't that be fucking swell – when he realized he wasn't able to find him. He wasn't by Dirge anymore.

A grunt from directly behind him had Delvin leaping off of his seat, a shout of surprise on his lips at the sudden noise. Unsurprisingly, it was that Daedric-armoured fucker, standing with his arms crossed with a slight slant in his posture, the universal signal for boredom.

Despite the rather amusing sound of Delvin's surprised scream, no one laughed. Eyes that had previously been focused on their own meals or conversations quickly swivelled to face the commotion, expressions of wariness directed towards the outsider in their midst.

"I'm suitable for any, and all, type of work. Just give me something to do," The words rumbled out from underneath the man's helmet, muffled slightly by the metal.

A grimace made its way to Delvin's face as he calmed his racing heart, there was a reason that he had never held on to anything of daedric origin. Even though it was worth enough to set a man up for years, that stuff always attracted the crazies like flies on a pile of horseshit.

A whisper to the right people and any daedric stock he had was snapped up in a week, at most. He didn't want to know the kind of attention the man before him received while walking around in a suit of the stuff for long enough to look comfortable in it.

"Lad, I asked ya to wait with Dirge. Can you go do that for me?" There was a tone of steel in Brynjolf's voice. "I'll be with you in a second, I'm just figuring out what I'm going to have you doing."

The covered head twisted from Delvin to Brynjolf, holding the latter's gaze for several moments. It went on long enough for one of Delvin's hands to start drifting to the ebony dagger he kept at his side. He'd seen enough men like the one before him to realise that the armoured fucker was weighing up whether or not to listen to Brynjolf.

The massive shoulders heaved and then dropped in a shrugging motion before the armoured feet moved their master back to the entrance of the Flagon, where Dirge appeared to have only just noticed that he was alone.

Even though he appeared to listen to Brynjolf, Delvin didn't let his hand stray from his dagger until the man was a few metres from his fellow Guild member. Thankfully, Brynjolf too seemed to realise that his new recruit was dangerous and kept his gaze on him as he passed.

At the same unseen signal, both Thieves Guild member, and the others around them, relaxed at the Daedric-armoured man resumed his position by Dirge, who took to the man coming back to his side with a wordless grunt. Brynjolf turned back to look at Delvin, who was giving his friend an 'are-you-serious' look.

"Alright," Brynjolf began with a small wave of his hands, keeping his voice low to keep the object of their discussion from overhearing, "I know what you're thinking, but we can still use him."

"He can also go on a murderous rampage, what's your point?" Delvin replied, an unimpressed look on his face.

"Because regardless of whether our luck regarding work turns around, it won't mean anything unless people know that it was us responsible," explained the brown-haired thief with a roll of his eyes. "Say I went to the Pale, completed a few jobs and gained the attention of some potential clients, how would any of them know who to contact?"

"By leaving a _mark_ ," Delvin groused, "not employing people like _him_. What would our _current_ clients say if our employees began to leave behind a bit of blood at their job-sites?" Unwillingly, the bald thief flicked his eyes to the wannabe-Dremora before going back to Brynjolf.

"So we make sure that our employees know what they can and _can't_ do. We tell them clearly what can make them forfeit their cut," Brynjolf told him.

"And if our employees happen to disagree with our rules?" Delvin pressed.

"Then they get told to get out," was Brynjolf's simple reply. Both of them knew it wouldn't be as easy as Brynjolf made it out to be, they'd both dealt with plenty of people who hadn't taken rejection well.

And judging by what their potential initiate was wearing, saying the situation 'wouldn't go over well' would be an understatement.

Delvin sighed.

"Look, Bryn," he said, finally deciding to give the man some slack, "I understand what you're trying to do, I really do, but I don't think that, whoever this guy is, he's going to bring us anything more than trouble."

Brynjolf let out a loud breath through his nose that flared his nostrils, a sign that, Delvin realised, signalled his friend was getting irritated.

"Delvin, you're missing the most important factor here." Said man made to open his mouth, but he was cut off by Brynjolf. "Have you heard of him?" Delvin frowned.

"Your point?" He asked his friend, becoming slightly annoyed at his friend's stubbornness. Brynjolf leaned forward, a small grin on his face.

"You mean you haven't heard about that man over there, wearing a full-suit of _Daedric_ amour?" Delvin paused as the realisation hit him.

How fuck hadn't he heard of a guy wandering around while completely fitted with Daedric amour? A few of his contacts should have, at least, passed on the information simply to keep him in the loop of things that were happening in Skyrim.

A few explanations for why he hadn't been told quickly popped into Delvin's head.

The first was that his network was slipping or hiding things from him, it was unlikely but possible.

The second was that the guy had only recently come into possession of that armour, or started wearing it out in public, just as unlikely as the first given his earlier observations but still possible.

The last option, the man possessed such skill in stealth that it would make the Grey Fox jealous. Like the others, this option was also unlikely.

"If he managed to remain unnoticed," Brynjolf spoke up, bringing Delvin from his thoughts, "while wearing Daedric armour, it means he has to have some capacity for stealth, along with that restraint you're looking for. Imagine what he could do in our outfit?"

"He could have just killed everyone he came across before us?" The breton said, semi-seriously. When Brynjolf gave him a dry look in response, Delvin sighed. "Fine, we'll put him through a trial." As his Nordic friend's grin began to stretch from ear to ear, he continued. "But I'm serious, Brynjolf, he can't give me any reason to not want him in. Deal?" Finishing his piece, Delvin offered a hand towards his friend.

"Deal," Brynjolf agreed with a grin. He then turned around and waved over their topic of conversation. "Lad," the thief called, "we've got something for you."

Heavy footsteps, a far cry from the kind that had managed to sneak behind him before, approached Delvin.

"Alright, lad," Brynjolf continued, once the man finally stopped at their table. "Your task is simple. All you've got to do is collect a few debts from some people here in Riften. Keerava, an argonian, runs the Bee and Barb. Bersi, a nord, owns The Pawned Prawn. Haelga, also a nord, manages a bunkhouse of the same name. Find them and get the money we're owed." Armoured man gave a short nod and a noise of acknowledgement before turning and heading for the exit of The Ragged Flagon.

A sudden sense of dread shot through Delvin as he watched the initiate walking away, and it made him speak up.

"Don't kill anyone," Delvin called out, getting the warrior to pause his walk. "The important bit is to show people that you don't mess with us, alright? I don't want to hear any noise about you taking the money off of corpses. Got it?"

There was some kind of sound coming from the man when Delvin finished and it took a moment for him to place it. It was laughter. The fucker was laughing at him. The breton thief frowned but before he could speak up, the object of his ire spoke.

"I understand," he said before continuing on his way to the exit. Grumbling slightly, Delvin held his tongue.

"Oi, lad, what's your name?" Brynjolf asked the Dremora-impersonator, making him stop and turn again. There was a pause as the unasked question of 'why are you asking now' hung in the air. "I've got a good feeling that you'll pass, and I need something to carve onto your bed. Don't want to let the others think that your stuff is theirs, do you?" While the last part was meant to impart some humour into the initiate, the potential recruit showed no sign of it doing so.

"People call me The Dragonborn," the man replied, before turning and exiting The Flagon without another word. A stunned silence settled over bar as the two men that had been addressed, along with those that overheard, wrapped their head around who had just left.

At their table, Delvin was aware enough to notice when Brynjolf turned away from the exit of The Flagon to face him with a shit-eating grin.

"Jackpot," he said.

"Hold on," Delvin replied, trying to firmly deny what he'd just heard. "He was probably just fucking with us. I'm pretty sure that The Dragonborn wears Ebony armour, not Daedric."

Around them, as their conversation restarted, so did others. All of them firmly revolving around the man who just left.

"Well apparently, he's decided he likes Daedric more." The smirk on Brynjolf's face told the breton exactly how much fun he was having with this.

"Even if he is the Dragonborn," Delvin said in exasperation, "and I'm not saying he is, it doesn't exactly help us, Bryn," Delvin pointed out. "Our work kind of relies on us being unknowns." That drew a snort from the nord.

"Tell me Delvin, are they still sending out that _invitation_ for you at Falkreath?" The amusement in Brynjolf's voice was plain to hear and earned a scowl from Delvin.

"Okay, that's a low blow," he groused.

"I'm sure that Jarl Balgruuf would also _really_ like the opportunity to host you for nice evening meal," the nord continued, mirth in his eyes.

"I get it," Delvin grunted. Brynjolf chuckled.

"Sorry my friend, but you can't use notoriety as a reason for someone to not be a part of our organisation."

"Then what about the things I've heard about him," Delvin countered. That made Brynjolf lean forward onto the table.

While the Dragonborn was well known throughout Skyrim, the stories that followed him varied from person to person. Though all could agree that he was a nord, physical details were constantly changing, along with the tales about his feats.

"Well?" Brynjolf questioned after a moment, waiting to hear what his friend had to say.

"The closest to home is from Ivarstead," Delvin began, "with some beggar accusing him of causing a frost-troll to fall from the sky and land on his house." The man shrugged at his friend's incredulous glance. "Says he heard some shout 'Foo Row Dah' or something before it smashed into his house, he thinks it was a Shout."

"That's barely better than a rumour, Delvin," Brynjolf snorted. "You've got to have something better than that."

"Oh, I've got better," Delvin promised. "Karthwasten, only a few months back, he crashed into the village on the back of a bloody dragon. People only heard him mutter about 'flying dragons' being harder than he thought before he walked off."

"A dragon?" The brown-haired thief questioned in a dry, somewhat disbelieving, voice, receiving a nod in confirmation. "That barely sounds better than your first story."

"This one's got witnesses though," the bald thief responded, "the Dragonborn had a bounty on him in the Reach until he paid it off."

"How?" Brynjolf asked incredulously. "You said he flew a dragon into a village, what could he have done to repay that? It'd require Black-Briar-levels of money."

"Apparently, he left for a few days before returning and dumped a chest filled dragon bones and scales at old Igmund's feet," Delvin answered. "Not entirely sure it was worth much though a few people in the Jarl's court looked interested enough in it."

Suddenly, Brynjolf sighed.

"Alright, Delvin, what's this really about?" He questioned seriously, "you've given me a bunch of half-baked excuses so far and, for the most part, I've entertained them, but now I want a real reason. Why don't you want the Dragonborn to join us?"

The master thief was silent for a few moments.

"I've met a lot of different people in my time, Brynjolf." Delvin's voice was low, as if he was afraid of being overhead, which was a legitimate concern being in The Ragged Flagon. Most likely though, he just wanted his privacy, which meant what he was about to say was something that he didn't want anyone else to overhear.

"I've worked with the Dark Brotherhood, even went to their hideout once, spoken to a few of their members," Delvin spoke, leaning his face closer to Brynjolf, expression serious as the nord had ever seen it. "None of them, not one, has ever made me as nervous as the Dragonborn." There was a moment of silence between the two friends. One thinking hard over what the other had said, while the other tried to impart his seriousness onto his friend through his eyes.

"Alright Delvin," Brynjolf said when the moment was done, "I'll keep a closer eye on him, make sure he isn't crazy." A small smile appeared on the face of the nord before he continued. "Well, crazier than the rest of us anyway."

"Good," Delvin nodded. Despite his rather laid-back attitude, the master thief knew that Brynjolf would study the Dragonborn a bit closer than he would have. Handing moving to his side, he made to signal Vekel for another round but stopped when he failed to feel his coin purse.

Eyes dropping to where it should be, they widened a second later when he failed to find it. Twisting his upper body from side to side before looking under his chair and the table he was sitting at, Delvin searched for his money. A minute later, he sat up to face the expectant face of Brynjolf, the man clearly wanting an answer for his sudden behaviour.

"Someone pinched my coin," Delvin said, faintly, in lieu of an explanation. His eyes widened in realisation as the puzzle-piece suddenly slotted into place. "It was the fucking Dragonborn."

Brynjolf laughed uproariously.

 **XxXxXxXxXxXxX**

 **Chapter End**

 **AN: Not entirely sure about what I'll do next.**

 **Maybe the College of Winterhold.**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed or has favourited, for those that haven't, remember to do so. Its mostly so that I know whether I should keep doing this or put my time elsewhere.**

 **The Right Stop.**


	3. Chapter 3: Fus Ro-ght Off A Cliff

**AN: So I know that I haven't been very active recently with this, that's a combination of the fact that this was never meant to be a regularly updated story, that I finished Skyrim (as much as one can (I've also now restarted it)), and work taking the front seat.**

 **Anyway, hope you all enjoy this. I'll try to get something out for you guys and gals in the next… six months.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **Fus Ro-ght Off A Cliff**

Klimmek gave of a relaxing sigh as he leaned against the Mountain Bridge of Ivarstead, the bridge that connected the town to the Throat of the World. Ever since that strange traveller had begun to regularly trek up the mountain to give supplies to the Greybeards, he'd begun to find more times like this, where he found himself with nothing to do.

Just some months ago, he should have been halfway up the Throat of the World by now, on another trip, but the stranger, clad in his even stranger armour, had merely turned up, asked if Klimmek had any supplies to give him before heading up the mountain. It was getting to the point where Klimmek was beginning to feel like he could pay the man before he returned, trusting that he actually was making sure the Greybeards got their supplies.

The Greybeards hadn't come down yet to say otherwise so Klimmek felt it was reasonable to assume the man was true on his word and was delivering the foodstuffs.

It wasn't all the time that Klimmek found himself with time to spare, but it was enough that he began to find himself getting use to the idea. He still made the odd trip if the stranger didn't turn up on time but generally, he could go for a few months at a time without having to take the Pilgrimage to High Hrothgar.

This didn't leave him with nothing to do, however. Klimmek also doubled as a fisherman and there was always a need for food.

But when he had spare time like this, Klimmek just liked to stop and think about things. Usually he liked to think about personal things but things weren't exactly good between himself and Fastred at the moment, so he instead thought about how the general happiness of the village seemed to be a little higher recently.

Wilhelm, the barkeeper of the Vilemyr Inn, had managed to gather enough coin from his fellow villagers to pay a couple of builders to fix Narfi's house. Klimmek had done his part for the poor man, offering a few coins to help him.

Now, only a month after they'd started, the Narfi's home was looking better than ever. A new roof kept the rain off of the man's head while proper walls kept the early winter chill at bay. It seemed the kindness of his fellow villages and the restoration of his house had an effect on Narfi, the slightly deranged man was beginning to talk to his fellow villagers again, to socialise.

He still spoke in that strange way as he had done since the death of his sister, but Klimmek liked to think that he saw Narfi smiling more now than he ever had before.

"…o dah."

A dull boom high up in the mountain drew Klimmek from his thoughts but he passed it off quickly.

Having made the Pilgrimage to the Greybeards, masters of the Voice, so many times, Klimmek was used to hear such sounds coming from above him and nothing having ever come from it.

It was only when something flashed in front of sun, which was just peaking out from behind the Throat of the World, that Klimmek raised his head. It was a white blur. A large white blur.

Klimmek's eyes quickly tracked its course to the ground, eyes widening as he realized its target would be Narfi's house. The man himself was standing just outside the building, staring blankly into the rushing water of the river.

"Narfi!" Klimmek shouted, no doubt garnering looks from the other villages. "Move now!"

The deranged man raised his head to look at Klimmek but had no time to do anything else as the white object slammed through the roof of his nearly finished house, sending splinters flying.

Shouts of shock and exclamation ran through the observers at the sight. Those inside buildings were drawn out by the noise and Narfi's loud yells of 'Mean Dragonborn!' as he ran from his, once again, wrecked home. Quickly, nearly the entire village had gathered at the remnants of Narfi's home to investigate what had caused the destruction.

"It's a frost troll!" One of the guards exclaimed as he looked over the furry beast, a few of his comrades be his side as he crouched next to the four-eyed monster. A few in the crowd immediately recoiled at the announcement while others moved closer to get a better view.

' _It_ was _a frost troll,'_ Klimmek added mentally as he got a look at the creature. Its limbs twisted and body crushed, not even a troll's fabled self-healing could undo that damage.

"A dead frost troll," some from the crowd said, voicing Klimmek's thoughts.

"How'd it get here?" Another person questioned.

"It must have just fallen off of the mountain," another guard said with a wave of her hand, "probably slipped off a cliff."

"… dah."

There was another dull 'boom' from further up the mountain, and unlike last time, Klimmek immediately rose his head to the sky, as did many others.

Directly above him, a white speck seemed to be moving away from the mountain before it stopped and started to grow bigger.

Eyes bulging, Klimmek immediately began to push through the crowds, a few others doing the same as they realised what was happening.

"Move, move!" Klimmek shouted to some of the particularly dense people who didn't seem to notice what was happening. The panic in his tone must have clued them in however, as they quickly began to move away from Narfi's house and back towards the bridge into Ivarstead-proper.

Most people had moved back across the bridge when the second object hit. Thankfully, it had lacked the aim of the first and merely smashed into the hard earth beside Narfi's house in a mess of blood and guts. Despite not going as frequently anymore and being some distance away, Klimmek still recognised the partially intact head of one of the snow bears that called the Throat of the World their home.

"Still think it just fell off a cliff?" Klimmek heard someone behind him snark to another, most likely the guard who'd suggested such a thing.

"It must be Kynareth showing her anger with us," someone said.

"You mean Kyne?" Another person, most likely one of the older nords of the village, corrected.

"Why would it be Kynareth?" Wilhelm, the barkeeper, asked from right beside Klimmek.

"They fell from the sky, didn't they?"

"No, it must be Hircine. We've been cursed by a Daedric Prince!" That possibility brought for a wave of mutterings, villagers and guardsmen alike.

"Or Sheogorath," another person put forth, drawing louder mutterings from the crowd.

Klimmek, however, new slightly differently however. Despite not having actually ever seen the Greybeards, he had occasionally heard their uses of the Voice as he travelled up the mountain. The noises and whispered words of an unknown language that were happening now were eerily similar.

The rest of the town have rarely heard the Voices of the Greybeards, so it was understandable that they wouldn't be able to identify them immediately. But the idea that the masters of the Voice were behind this brought forth questions.

Why would the Greybeards do this? What could they possibly gain from making beasts rain from the sky?

Before Klimmek could voice his thoughts, another noise was heard from the higher reaches of the mountain. People immediately scattered and took shelter where they could, Klimmek doing the same.

He only hoped that they Greybeards stopped this soon.

How long could one keep pushing bears and trolls off of cliffs for? They'd have to tire eventually.

Right?

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **AN: Not sure what the next chapter will be about, got a few in my head but we'll have to wait and see.**

 **See ya next time.**

 **The Right Stop**


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